DON'T SAY THE NAME!
by 80sarcades
Summary: Horrifying information is received by our Heroes; news that has nothing to do with the Germans, or the war...yet which drives them to equally desperate measures to solve their 'problem'.


**_DON'T SAY THE NAME!_**  
**_by 80sarcades_**

* * *

_This story…well, I won't give too much away. Just something I dreamed up for a bit of fun…_

* * *

"Here it is, Colonel," Sergeant Kinchloe said sadly, a look of disgust on his normally solemn face. "Read it and weep."

Colonel Robert Hogan took the sheets of paper from his second-in-command's hand before studying the thin pages. Although he tried to keep a straight face, his men knew him all too well; the hooded eyes and pursed lips told them that something was wrong.

"What's wrong, Colonel?" Newkirk asked. "Another mission?" He flexed his fingers together; several of the joints popped with a satisfying _crack_. "You know these nimble fingers," he said, a trifle proud. "Always ready for King and Country!"

His French friend, sitting nearby, mockingly rolled his eyes. "Perhaps we'll need to cook this time, instead of steal," he announced. "I can create a culinary masterpiece that will solve all of our problems—"

"The last problem you _solved_ for me gave me the runs, it did," the English Corporal interjected even as he threw a glare across the table. "I don't think we'll be needing your cooking on this one, thanks."

"You wouldn't know good food if it hit you, you…" LeBeau then unleashed a torrent of French words upon his bunkmate. For his part, the Englishman was unfazed even before a new voice piped up.

"Hey, maybe we'll get to use those new explosives we just got!" Carter cheerfully interrupted. "You never can have a mission without blowing something up!"

"Carter," Newkirk growled, shaking his head, "what are you planning on doing after the war?"

"Oh, be a pharmacist," the Sergeant said happily. "Plus, I was thinking about doing a little mining after the war. Look for gold, you know. The best part is that I could make my own explosives; I bet I could come up with something way more powerful than dynamite if I just used some ordinary household chemicals—"

"Remind me to never take any pills from you, Carter," Newkirk interrupted solemnly. Just as the other man was about to respond, Hogan's voice piped up.

"Hold it," he called out. "I have some bad news." He tossed the list on the table. "Take a look."

The curious looks on the faces of the assembled men turned to horror as they perused the list. Even Carter, whose happy eyes usually contrasted with the somber barracks, turned thoughtful if not sad.

"Those vermin," LeBeau finally announced. "Of all the things we are forced to do…"

"We're always in a bad fix, mate," Newkirk said, his earlier anger gone. "but this is the worst!"

"How could they do this to us?" Carter asked. "I mean, they seem like such nice people…"

"That's just the way of it," Kinch mused. "Our lives are in their hands every day. And they get the medals for it!"

"Men," Hogan spoke up, ending the impromptu discussion, "Newkirk's right. We've been through a lot, and we see these every year, but this…"

The Colonel's words trailed off as he picked up the paper again; this time, his leather-clad arm held the offending pages at arm's length. "…this is the worst one yet!" He nodded at Kinch; the radioman quickly produced a number of small objects that he handed off to each man. Once done, he laid the last object in the center of the table; various eyes looked at the container with resignation, if not reverence.

"I think you know what we have to do," the Senior POW announced. "We don't have a choice." His men nodded.

"Too bad it's not a lasting solution," Kinch said. "If there were any other way to get rid of this problem, I'd suggest it."

Hogan sighed. "I wish so, too," he quietly remarked before his hand grasped the glass bottle. The officer carefully poured an inch of amber liquid into each of his men's glasses before he filled his own. Once ready, he raised his shot glass in the air.

"To Stalag 13!" he called out. His men raised their glasses in response.

"To Stalag 13!" they choursed.

With that, he downed his drink; he groaned gratefully as the smooth nectar burned his throat.

* * *

"Now, Klink!" Major Wolfgang Hochstetter raged, his spittle landing on the camp Kommandant's hastily worn tunic. "Let's go!"

"But, Major Hochstetter…" Colonel Klink pleaded. "It's after their bedtime. It's after _my_ bedtime! Surely…"

"I don't care about bedtimes, you idiot," the Major growled. "Every minute you waste here is in Hogan's favor. Start acting like a man, Herr _Kom-an-dant_," he snarled even as his face pulled close to the bald man's own.

Predictably, the Luftwaffe Colonel folded in terror; his trembling hand grabbed his cover before they headed for Barracks Two. To the Major's great surprise Hogan and his men were clustered at a wooden table, small glasses in hand, getting…_drunk?_

"What is this!" he spat. "Prisoners drinking alcohol?" He quickly turned on the shivering Kommandant. "This is against camp regulations, Klink! I'll have—"

"Hochstetter, old buddy!" Hogan boomed, his voice slurred. "Nice to see you! How're they hanging? What brings you out this way?"

"You know perfectly well why, Hogan!" the Major hissed to the drunken Colonel. "You and your men are always up to something!" His eye then spotted a paper on the table; a quick hand snatched it up before the other men could react.

"Papa Bear Awards…" Hochstetter muttered. "Ah, HA!" his voice yelled. "I have you now, Hogan! You are Papa Bear!" he said triumphantly, pointing a finger at his nemesis. "You're mine now!"

"Major," the American said, unsteadily rising to his feet. "You already know I'm Papa Bear. Don't you remember Fanfic Court?" He shuddered slightly, then wobbled before regaining control. "We're fictional characters!"

Hochstetter's eyes widened in alarm as memories flowed into his mind. "Those women…" he muttered darkly.

"Not to mention those one or two guys," Kinch popped in. "Honestly, I'm glad we're not all wearing dresses."

"Speak for yourself," Newkirk said. "I happen to like my own. It makes me feel so alive, at times…" He broke off as piercing eyes swung in his direction. "And what's wrong with that?" he challenged, facing them directly. "I like a little air on me legs, especially after I've shaved—"

"BAH! I don't care who's shaving what!" Hochstetter screamed before holding up the list with a furious hand. "And what is this?" he demanded, thrusting the paper in Hogan's direction . "A list of your underground contacts, hah?"

"Actually, they're winners of the 2012 Papa Bear Awards," the Colonel replied sourly. "And before you go any further, you should see the gold medal winner for the best story."

"Let me see…" the Major said, squinting at the paper. Suddenly, his face turned pale. "No," he breathed. "Not her! Not—"

"DON'T SAY THE NAME!" the men yelled, startling Hochstetter into silence. Instead, another voice – cowed up to now - spoke up.

"Why not, Hogan?" Klink said, his trembling voice curious.

"It's like speaking a demon's name," LeBeau offered, his voice calm. "It will give her more power; with enough, she'll be unstoppable!"

"Besides, after today her ego is already monumental." Hogan finished. "Who knows how big her head will get? Or how many stories she'll write about us? Not to mention the ones her fellow authors will write."

All of the men shuddered in terror; being at the mercy of the Germans was bad enough. Being at the mercy of Women - strangers that hid behind cute screen names! - was terrifying. Hochstetter, meanwhile, stared at the list once more.

"She's the one that wrote me in that horrible story…the one where she made me into an Allied agent," he groaned, remembering the details.

"I actually liked that one," Carter muttered softly. Unfortunately, Hochstetter heard his low voice. The Major eyed him with a nasty glare before his gloved hand reached out in the American's direction. With a quick motion, he dropped the papers on the table before he grabbed the nearby bottle. He took one of the shot glasses and poured liquor into it before downing the alcohol into his throat. After a moment, he repeated the gesture with another dose. Then again. The men then watched as the bombastic Major swallowed three more shots after those; within minutes, his eyes began to turn hazy.

"Careful, Major," Hogan warned. "You're drinking those too fast…"

"We'll have to break the glass, too," LeBeau added darkly. "Especially since a _Boche_ drank from it…"

"I have a dream!" Hochstetter blurted, the alcohol quickly – and quite evidently – hitting his system.

"Don't you mean, 'I'm drunk?'" Colonel Hogan prompted.

"No, I have a plan!" the Major slurred, somewhat drunkenly.

"You can't hold alcohol, either," Newkirk said amusedly.

"My plan," the Gestapo officer repeated, leaning forward on suddenly wobbly feet, "is this. And I'll need your help to get my – our – revenge on _her_, since she is the best of the authors at the moment…"

Klink tried, and failed, to listen in even as the other men moved forward to hear the Major's plan. Suddenly, they broke apart. For the first time in the Kommandant's memory, the American Colonel actually looked…_impressed_? His eyes, though still tipsy, stared at Hochstetter admiringly.

"That would actually work, I think," he judged. "One problem, though," he mused. "How do we get in touch with this ACME Corporation?"

"Leave that to me," the Major said, his throat cackling devilishly. "She won't see it coming…"

[fin/ende]

* * *

_A/N: Congratulations to Sgt. Moffitt on being voted for 'Best Story' in the PBA's! And congrats as well to everyone that participated, winners or not! And I promise: the ACME Corporation won't take any action at all. I think:-)_


End file.
